My current trend in writing is to treat it like bits of code. Debugging as time goes on (fixing spelling/grammarish issues).

Most of these poems will rest the way they are written, but given time and interest many will see a patches or 2 before it is over.


Beauty sleep

We all piled into the car
All six of us, in through the four doors
Clowns each
Crawling into the trunk, dashboard, key hole, ashtray
And i don’t know who drove that day
We were all there, driven
car made it’s own way
past cows, knotted hills speckled with rocks shrubs
white horse is a slap on the thigh
but all the sights just smear past
through the glass
our legs lean over each other’s knees
there were rules to the road, only the car knew that day
we kept to the inside out of the carpool lane
better to get there before the turtle
but after the hair
6 of us hurtling through space in alloyed invention
hair splitting difference between
creamy center and the roads glare
it was the day when laboring can cease for a moment
everythingshops are underlock
houses puff smoke balls, mocking a lizard cloud
we had orders to enter high atmospheres
closer to where the earth’s bubble of gas fades away
spindling across wooded switch backs
up into the parking lot nestled next to trail’s head
where our thin shell smiles were whacked to stumps
where a sign was drawn across the path. Closed.
where the man of tree bark and hat, had locked up mount el dialbo
to sleep or just rest the night away,
it’s body gets tired of nike’s making patterns
of monkey butt resting on it’s tender boulders
we got out of the car anyway
to circulated our limbs
leaned into the gate’s dividing line,
hemming hawing at the peaks distant nipple
cover with whipped cream, and the cherry of
a-to-be sunset on top
we took pictures next to the closed sign
and pretended the mountain was Rush-More him self
and this was as close as we could ever get to his flawed faces,
day or night
sign or no sign
and the why of it all was never asked
The mountains gets closed. Every day
it seems they get shut up, for safety
surely the mountain doesn’t have to get up early
doesn’t have a bed time, or hair cut appointment
it sunny side up comes as regular as bran muffin mornings
so we all piled back into the car
not fitting right
square pegs of psychological experiments
rounded the corners of the smiling switch back, who knew all the while
crossing the field smells
mixed aromatic cow flesh, skunk, mint, grass, leaves
all whisking us home
to open up the t.v. set and create another great night to remember
all cause the mountain we wanted
needs beauty sleep like vanna white


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